Freaking out

I’ve kept this news on the down-low. For so many reasons. Because it makes me feel vulnerable. Because I don’t want to jinx it. Because it is scary business. Because it’s been a largely private journey. Because I’m wary of everyone’s reaction to the news. Because everyone expects me to be giddy-happy, and the journey has been so complicated and heartbreaking. Because it fills everyone else with expectations.

Because it’s one of the things I’ve most desired, and I wanted to keep it to myself for awhile. Because it’s one of the things I’ve most desired, and I wanted to protect myself for awhile. And I’d like to keep protecting myself, but it’s just impossible.

But now–I feel compelled to share, because I am freaking out, partly because I’ve been shrouding myself in quiet privacy. And this fear–this fear has found its way into the crevices of my identity as a writer–because my identity itself is changing. I’m in this weird transition–from one thing to another.

Because you see, after thirteen years of trying and not-not-trying and multiple times given up and then, after wiping my tears on my sleeve, forged on ahead again…I’m pregnant. I’m over 26 weeks pregnant, in fact. About 2/3 of the way through my pregnancy.

And yes I’m happy. It took me a long time to allow myself to relax and be happy, to say it will be okay, that this is real. I shared with one friend and then another and then another, one at a time, dipping my toe into the water, revealing my secret, getting used to saying, “I’m pregnant.”

I couldn’t even say, “I’m pregnant” to the OBGYN receptionist on the phone, which prompted her to say, “Why are you making a checkup appointment with an OB? You can call your primary care physician, you know.” To which I said in garbled voice, “Because I’m prrrrrregnannnnnnt.” Oh it felt weird to say that. It felt like someone else saying so. It felt unreal. In those early weeks, I was cocooned in caution. The caution cocoon happens when you try and try and try and never get something you want.

We reached milestone after milestone. In disbelief at the good news each time. Deep down, we were thrilled. Deep down, the drumbeat picked up its pace. And yet, we measured our outward reaction, because all those years trying to get pregnant? They took away a big chunk of our innocence. And that’s okay. Sometimes things cost innocence.

I’m not freaking out about being pregnant anymore. I’m excited. I’m not freaking out about giving birth. It’s going to happen. I’m not freaking out about the changes in my body. It’s a part of the process.

There is a new freakout: I’m freaking out, as I do most changes in my life, about how it will affect my writing, which is a core part of my life, identity, and sanity.

Some of my non-mama friends have told me it’s just like anything else–that I’ll just make the time–that people have jobs and responsibilities and they manage to carve out time for writing. But I have a strong feeling that motherhood is unlike anything else–even while pregnant, this thing has taken over my psyche, my thoughts, my heart, my finances, my time, my body, and my time. It’s all-consuming.

For the record–I haven’t had that creative-burst that people say women have during pregnancy. It just hasn’t happened, thus increasing my silent freak-out. I really wanted to finish a major revision of my novel before giving birth. That isn’t going to happen, even though I’m forging onwards in my revision so that I’ll have no regrets.

The closest I’ve ever come to having something hijack my writing is my stroke, which left me completely unable to write fiction for nearly two years. And yet my stroke recovery was still a time focused utterly on myself. That ain’t motherhood, either.

I am positive that longterm, motherhood will be amazing for my writing. That it will inform me as a human and in turn my writing. That my kid is going to give me tons of ideas and windows into the rooms of life that I haven’t yet entered.

But short term? I am anxious. I know I won’t be able to revise my novel for a few months. But will it be a year away? Two years away? I don’t know how I could handle that.

How do you manage? How do you transition your identity as a writer into motherhood? What are tips for making time? How long did it take to get back to your writing? Are there things I’m overlooking?

I have so many questions. So many questions.

Finding the door

When I get stuck on my novel revision, it’s like sitting in a room with furniture covering every wall, including possible doorways out. There is something going on with my novel that is not right/should not be there/needs to be moved so that I can get unstuck.

Oftentimes, it’s my tyranny as a writer in a previous draft that causes a block in a subsequent revision–usually it is because I’ve forced the characters to do something that is unnatural and against their will. Or I’ve just cluttered the draft with unnecessary, incongruous details. Either way, I and my novel end up with roadblocks.

So it is with this point in my revision. There are more than a couple instances of roadblock going on in my novel. Because I’ll look at a chapter and just SIT there, wondering where to go from there. And I’ll see no openings, no windows, no doors, not even a trapdoor (okay, I haven’t yet looked for a trapdoor, and maybe I should). It feels like a dead-end, in which case I have no choice but to take the whole damn room apart, or demolish it altogether.

It’s scary to delete entire chapters. Sometimes it has to be done.

In the interim, I’m working on strengthening chapters and scenes that do work. I wrote five sentences of my novel revision the other day. This, my friends, is a miracle. Because that’s the most I’ve written in my novel in weeks. Weeks. Weeeeeeks. Some people say you get a burst of creativity when you’re in my specific physical condition–but I’ve just gotten massive creativity constipation.

It just so happens that another dam is breaking, too. I built up an emotional wall to brace myself for a personal event–and it isn’t the healthiest of things to do, and certainly not healthy for writing. It’s more honest to fall and cry and stand back up than it is for me to stand rigid and quivering. And I’m stronger when I stand after falling. And a good cry is even better for my writing.

Sorry for being so vague. Personal stuff.

And then there’s more personal stuff that is challenging me to open up, that makes me less alone on this earth, and yet makes me feel more alone than ever. It’s good stuff but again, sorry for being so vague. Personal stuff yet again.

I’ve also stepped back in as Fiction Editor over at Kartika Review. If you’re Asian American and/or write about Asian American related writing (whether theme or character), please send your fiction in.

And being as I’m in NYC for a few weeks, I’m surrounded by readings. The big reading event of Fall 2012 was the Junot Díaz reading at Barnes & Noble on Union Square. There were hundreds of people at that reading. I showed up over an hour in advance of start time, and got myself a seat (my friend had gotten there about ten minutes earlier and saved me a seat). There were hundreds of people behind me standing. There were people downstairs trying to get up to the reading. NYPD was there for crowd control. It was awesome to see literature need rock-star-crowd-control measure.

I live-tweeted the reading (Junot makes his readings less about reading and more about a dialogue with his audience, so there are good tidbits all around). Here are a few excerpts from my live-tweets:

“ppl in the back we love u. It’s one thing 2 hv a fucking seat. It’s another 2 hv 2 stand the fuck up.” –Junot Diaz (2 the capacity crowd)

“when ur rendering chars on paper, u’ve gotta be strategic. Chars hv no weight until u attach them to relationships.” — Junot Díaz

“male representation is so absurd, trivial. Despite the over abundance of men the internal lives of boys are overlooked.”-Junot Diaz

“what’s intriguing w most of us is it’s so much easier to live w the safety of work unrealized. It’s safe.” –Junot Diaz

“Truth is Tht safety of work unrealized does not in any way compare to flawed beauty of work realized.” –Junot Diaz

“first you have to suck for a long time. The only thing Tht separates a published writer is a tolerance for imperfection.” –Junot Diaz

“this is a wired generation. My MIT students ask me where my reading is. Lookitupmotherfucker dot com!”–Junot Diaz

“get to fucking work, yo.” -Junot Diaz

If ur an immigrant what the fuck haven’t u survived? –Junot Diaz

It is u & ur story, fuck everybody else. The best part is when it’s done every1 will get their say so why give them say before? -Junot Diaz

I don’t know about you, but listening to Junot always flips a light switch on in my head.

I hope you’re finding the doors in your work. I’m trying to find the doors in mine. I’m so determined to get some work done.

Stuck

These days, I’m blogging here and I’m writing in my Moleskine journal–but I’m not writing my novel. I want to write my novel, but it’s just not happening; I’m either forcing something that doesn’t belong in the novel and/or I am on the brink of a breakthrough. Or I have to just admit that I don’t write well at all in the Summer.

There is a small part of me that says “That’s okay, you’re still writing,” but the rest of me is completely discouraged and self-condemning.

I have friends who write everyday–they write through the blocks and they turn in complete novel manuscripts within a year’s time. That is so not me. There are writers who take ten years to write a novel–that’s more like me. Writers-who-take-years-to-write-a-novel are traumatized by that creative timespan. We are asked “How’s your novel coming along?” way more often for starters.

I think part of the pressure comes from the fact that most writers don’t talk publicly about the dark parts of writing–the blocks, and the days you sit in front of your computer and all you do is revise one damn paragraph. And the days you sit in front of your computer and you can’t think of a single idea. Or the day you sit in front of your computer and you delete every single word you wrote in the last four weeks.

We writers like to, in the public eye, present writing as “magical.” We like to prolong the myth of genius. That the words come out of thin air and shine with brilliance on the page. There are movies that show writers in action–like Katherine Turner in “Romancing the Stone” tearing her hair out while writing (but that typing never stops, does it?) or Nicholas Cage in “Adaptation” (okay at least there, writing block is accurately depicted–for like Charlie, I often negotiate brownies as reward for words written). And I love the depiction of a writer-gone-astray by Michael Douglas in “Wonderboys” (but even then, he’s written an over-long novel, and again, the typing doesn’t stop). But those are stories–stories don’t happen without Something Awful happening–and the Something Awful for a writer equals struggling with a long project. But even in movies, the writing happens, and no one in real life likes to talk about those horrible days and horrible weeks and horrible months where the writing doesn’t happen. Because it makes us seem less than perfect. Because it makes us look stupid. Because it’s tragic.

So in sum, I feel imperfect. I feel stupid. I feel tragic.

So there’s that.

And then I think in my case, my novel is waiting for me to grow up. This novel and its story is bigger than I am. And I wonder if I fail it, every day. Even on my best days, I fear to fail my novel.

In my worse moments, I think that even if I don’t finish this thing a lot of good has come out of it–my novel has made me a better person. It has stretched me. It has been the thing that drove me to recover from my stroke. It has been the thing of so many lessons learned–lessons that I could not have learned any other way than facing a blank page and exploring worlds with the goal of seeking understanding and communicating understanding. It has made me grow up. It has given me comfort. And it has kicked my ass. Everyone needs a good ass-kicking now and then.

But on the worst days, I look at my novel and wonder if I should walk away from it. The only things that keep me from walking away is the incredible encouragement I’ve received from my writing mentors–and my amazing writer mentors are not men or women who give out encouragement lightly. So I keep at it. On my very worst days, my mentors save my novel’s ass.

So for now, I am gestating, in more ways than one. The words and ideas will come. It’s just summertime, I guess, when writing traditionally doesn’t happen for me.

These are the things I do in order to sabotage myself (and because I hate feeling helpless, I propose solutions)

When I write, my aim is to unleash my inhibitions and thus my imagination. On the very very best days, I am able to explore new worlds and write them with courage and truth. On the very very very very very verrrry best days, I write many words with courage and truth. On these days, I am elated. I would take these days over the most delicious cake. That’s saying a lot. Because I love cake.

Unfortunately, when I unleash my inhibitions and imagination, among the many things released include insecurity and fear. If I channel and examine my fear in a positive context, it can help produce the very best writing. Under certain circumstances (and I’m no scientist, but it’s kind of like the optimum conditions for bacteria proliferation), my insecurity and fear rocket. Fear is a very very selfish and abusive state of mind that demands the entire floor. Fear’s best friends are helplessness and insecurity and together, they often plan out acts of self-sabotage.

And sadly, I occasionally enact self-sabotage as a writer. I do so because I am afraid to fail, afraid to (yes) succeed, afraid to confront my feelings, afraid to confront the page, afraid to write the words, afraid my words are not good enough and will never be good enough, afraid to tell the truth–the list goes on.

And these are my acts of self-sabotage (self-sabotage meaning things you do that hamper/damage your writing) as a writer…

1) I don’t do this very often anymore, but when I do, it’s the most destructive thing ever: I compare myself to other writers. It’s a sick act that’s covered in the goo of jealousy. I think it was Craig Ferguson who said that envy is like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die. It’s so exactly like that. And I avoid it.

I avoid it by surrounding myself with supportive writer friends, and by supporting my friends. A mentor once told me that a writer who helps other writers will be blessed. The more I support my friends, the less I compare myself to them. Because in a way, I am participating in their success, as opposed to being a bystander.

When I was a kid, I took swimming lessons. I was horrible in swim class, and I was a horrible swimmer. I was horrible because when we swam, I always stopped swimming to look around to see where I was relative to my classmates.

Of course, as soon as I stopped swimming, I would sink. And I’d come in dead last (not that it was a race just like writing isn’t a race, but it sucks to come in dead last). I didn’t learn, because I was comparing myself to others more than I was doing the act of swimming.

I didn’t know I was doing this at the time, but in hindsight and through my mom’s anecdotes (“You keep looking up and sinking. Why aren’t you swimming?”) I was able to synthesize this lesson.

So when I compare myself to other writers, I also think about my swimming lessons. If I’m comparing myself to other writers, I’m not writing. I’m sinking.

2) I psyche myself out and tell myself I’m not good enough. And then I wallow.

This is the thing with which I struggle most. My waning self confidence kills me. It really kills me. It is rarely brought on by others’ achievements, but the lack of my own. Or a feeling of lack of progress.

This is when I often do some low-stakes writing, like blogging. So I keep writing without pressure and without judgment. Or I call a very good writing friend (they are so important). Or I call a very good non-writer friend (they are just as important).

Most important, I just go heads down and write again. Because I’ve gotten to a point in my life where I know that I won’t stop writing. And the act of writing is the ultimate cure.

3) I am not honest about my writerly needs.

In my case, this is one of those “room of her own” situations–where I do not have a proper psychic and physical space for me and my writing. This is when I’m not honest to myself, and I insist on writing at home, even with a houseguest not understanding of my life as a writer–instead of going to a café to write. It’s been difficult to admit, but I’ve learned that I cannot write in my own home on a regular basis. There is too much temptation to be distracted. And if I cannot write–see #2 above: my confidence starts waning.

Instead of writing at home, I write at The Writers Room in NYC, or at the San Francisco Writers Grotto. Both spaces have been very kind for my writing, and I’ve learned what I need from my time at both.

For others–your writerly needs may mean other things, like sleep or a writing residency. Learn what they are, and make it happen.

4) I allow myself to be distracted.

There is a fine line between meeting up with friends for your psychic health and doing necessary chores….and meeting up with friends and doing chores in order to procrastinate on writing. You know what they are. What matters most in a year? What will matter most for me in a year is a finished novel revision. So get on it.

5) I allow myself to become too isolated.

Haha. On the flip side of socializing-as-a-form-of-procrastination, I often allow myself to become isolated. You gotta get out. Meet like minds. Get support. Crack a few jokes.

I’m on twitter–sometimes, I feel like if I didn’t have twitter, I’d be a total writing hermit. And I love my community there, and in real life. It helps to keep a real conversation going with someone other than my characters. It helps me energize. It helps me gain new experiences and new ideas. It helps me realize there is a world outside my novel.

6) I don’t read enough.

I totally self-sabotage by not taking time out to READ. It is the most important thing I can do for my writing (other than write). And I mean read the good stuff. When I do not read, it gets bad.

7) Seek approval from those who will not understand or approve. Or seek approval from those who will never tell you the truth and will too easily give your manuscript their approval.

Know who your audience is. If you’re writing a memoir about being a left wing liberal radical, think twice before showing your manuscript to someone who is staunchly tea party (or vice versa. Giving your manuscript to heavily biased people who will guaranteed-criticize your work is self-sabotage. What are you doing it for? What kind of feedback do you expect, and how will it help your writing?

Also, don’t just show your manuscript to people who so easily approve you will never learn. Again, it’s self-sabotage and over-protection. Will your manuscript improve?

I made these mistakes often in my earlier writing days–and all it did was lead to feedback that rarely helped me.

What things do you do as acts of self-sabotage, and what things do you find helpful to keep yourself in a healthy writing state?

(hits head on table)

<hits head on table>Looked at my novel-in-progress; it is such a mess and I HATE it today. I know I must soldier on, because I am probably near a breakthrough moment if I hate it this much, but it is agonizing and awful and I feel hopeless. </hits head on table>*

*table on which I am slamming my head is pictured above.

Perseveration and Perseverance and the Novel

I am drowning today. I woke up feeling awful about my novel. Like wondering-why-I’m-even-doing-this awful. And I felt even more hideous knowing that I’d continue to re-write despite my despondence. And yet even more horrific because then of course all this self-doubt was a massive waste of time, keeping me from said novel-rewrite.

On these self-doubting occasions, I feel like my novel is an act of perseveration–of crazy unfulfilling repetition that speaks to the adage, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.”

That line speaks not to perseverance but to perseveration, which is an actual psychological term describing unhealthy behavior repetition.

There’s a difference between perseveration and perseverance. Perseverance, which is steady persistence (and a novel-writing virtue) towards a goal despite obstacles and discouragement has value in the effort whereas perseveration recreates old, unresolved issues (i.e., like how someone who felt left out in junior high then ends up, in her adult life, trying to connect with people who reject her–or at its simplest, repetition of spoken phrases).

It’s when I fail to see value in the process and effort, that I feel like writing this novel is an act of insanity.

One of the most hurtful things someone has ever said to me (other than the time someone told me, “My husband will not be happy if I get fat–but your husband doesn’t seem to care!”) is “Are you still working on that novel? Finish it already.” That a novel is solely about a finished product is false–that a novel’s value is positioned solely in its finished product is daunting and stomach-turning, at least for someone in the thicket of revision.

And yet, because of this end goal, I push. I push.

And sometimes, it’s the pushing that is the wrong thing to do with my novel-in-progress.

I’ve taken up yoga in the past year or so. After living in yoga-infused-Berkeley for decades and scoffing at the practice, I found a yoga instructor and studio in Tara Stiles and Strala Yoga in NYC that did not make me feel alienated or like I landed on Mars or had me speaking a foreign language in class.

I learned that yoga isn’t about pushing. It’s about being in the moment, and connecting with your breath and going with the ease. That anything is possible. That I can do crow and when I did crow, the moment felt utterly effortless and beautiful and marvelous. That it happened like magic one day. That getting to crow and holding crow meant staying very much in the present moment. That pushing to do crow was the very thing that made me topple.

It is hard to fight self doubt. Maybe it might be better to cave into it and process the feelings that self doubt brings. Either way, I thought that by writing about my self doubt and defining the creature that embodies it in my life today, I’ll know better how to manage it.

That I am pushing to “finish” my novel is what stalls me–that I fail to see value in the process and the present moment of revision is what pushes me to doubt myself.

So I downloaded my yoga class playlist and I’m writing to it this morning, so that what I learn in yoga can infuse me as a writer today. No pushing. Just be. Write the words. Breathe. Listen to my novel. Listen to me. Allow myself to cry. So that I can amaze myself.

Writing is Hard Work and Don’t Let Anyone Tell You Different

Writers (and I’m talking about creative writing) who in the debate about whether or not writing can be taught say that “writing cannot be taught,” or writers who say they “don’t revise” are engaging in a game of intimidation.

Whether they are accurate or not in their assessment (if you are 140% talentless, I guess writing cannot be taught…and perhaps some brilliant writer out there really doesn’t revise their work), I hate it when writers try to make writing “magical” and solely about “talent.” It’s such an arrogant thread of thought to imply that you either have it or you don’t. Certainly, talent is a crucial part of the pie–but people with talent still need coaching, mentoring, and practice. Tons of practice and hard work.

This bucket of sick giraffe bull reminds me of my high school. I have a lot of wrath toward my high school years, so be forewarned. I went to a super cut-throat competitive high school that happened to be a public high school. The counseling office would actually publish the top 100 GPAs of students in descending order every semester. They didn’t list names, but they did list student ID numbers. Who were they kidding? You think we ultra-competitive students hadn’t memorized each others’ SIDs? We knew exactly where we all stood.

But I guess the counseling office was bored, and needed to generate work. Because I’m sure after those rankings, they’d have to do a lot of counseling. And I’m not talking about the academic kind.

Anyway–I’m talking about people who front about how easy shit is, just to intimidate other people in a competitive atmosphere. And I was talking about my high school, which was full of students with gray bags under their bloodshot eyes saying they had a full night’s sleep, didn’t study for the test at all, and the test was a cinch. For awhile I believed them. Until my father said, “Are you an idiot? Of course they’re studying. They’re just psyching you out! Now go to your room and study all night until dawn breaks.” My dad is such an Asian Dad. Literally. And figuratively. Okay. I just wrote notes to my friends all night long. Like, twelve page handwritten notes. I was destined to be a writer. But I did study, just not as hard as my father wished I would.

The claim to a well of genius/brilliance without the investment of hard work stems from deep arrogance and/or fear.

You mean to say that Jackson Pollock just threw some paint up on a canvas and that was it? That dude worked long and hard to attain those splashes. There is an entire history of Pollock paintings preceding his “drip canvases” that attest to that. You mean to say that Itzhak Perlman fell out of the womb playing a violin? That Lance Armstrong just rode his bike and rode it to victory from the start? No shit. They all worked hard. There’s the equivalent of about 100,000 bottles (probably more, but I don’t feel like researching the amount of sweat a bicyclist would exude in his/her training) of Gatorade that Armstrong had to suck down to replace the sweat from training exertion. They played until their fingers bled. Or at the least, had whopping callouses.

I know someone who was a concert violinist earlier in his life and even if he did not make it his lifelong career, he has a little hollow in his jawbone; he practiced so often and for so long, the bone grew as if his face were attached to his chinrest. Which it was. Because he practiced for hours and hours as a small child.

At AWP this week (and I’ll be quoting from AWP for awhile to come), Nami Mun at her Works in Progress panel said you can’t succeed solely on talent–that there is the concept of practice, citing Yo-Yo Ma. That the only difference between an average person and a successful person is focused practice; a “willingness to practice, develop your craft, and understand the difference.”

And Margaret Atwood, in her keynote said, “I’m startled by people who say they want to write but don’t like reading. Those people want an audience for them to listen to their sad story and that’s the end of it. They’d be happier on reality TV, because that’s less work. And yes, I said the ‘w’ word: WORK.”

PREACH.

I know that my novel certainly has waited for me to grow and develop as a writer. And that it’s guided me through my own maturity as a human being. I molded the novel into shape, and in recent times, my novel has been the thing to mold and shape me in return, and it has led me into amazing life adventures, calling to me with its needs such as much time spent on wikipedia and google and sometimes twitter for novel research. That I couldn’t write this novel eight years ago didn’t mean I could never write the thing.

It takes practice. It takes hard work. It’s pain. And it’s joy. Sometimes I suck. Sometimes my novel sucks. Whatever. Work more.

I am one of the legions of writers who has been married to a novel-in-progress for more than five long years (and I am not close to being finished). We, the slowest of writers, salute those who write a novel a year (I’m looking at you, Joyce Carol Oates). At AWP, Don Lee said he takes two years to write one novel: the first six months spent on generating ideas, another year to write the draft, and then another six months of revision. I salute you too, Don Lee.

But over cocktails, my tongue freed up by a gin and tonic at the AWP conference headquarters bar (by golly, all ten thousand writers BROKE that bar–it was four people deep, and it took 20 minutes to get a drink order in–it’s a wonder that ANYONE even got tipsy)…I announced that my novel dictates the speed at which it is written. I think at least one person said “Amen” to that. Who knows. I get drunk off half a cocktail. Some stories demand a long time. And some stories demand to be told immediately.

My novel is better than the person I am. And it’s being patient. And asking me to be patient, in turn. And to work my ass off so I can deserve the novel I end up showing the world.

And yes. I revise. Everyday I’m a better writer than the day before. I’m learning to write everyday damn day. I also had eyelid surgery so I could have double eyelids. And I hate bell peppers.

What People Think Writers Do

There is an internet image meme going around along the lines of “What People Think _____ Do,” the “blank” being filled in by variation occupations (entrepreneurs, producers, etc).

There is a screenwriter meme that is pretty close to fiction writing, but not so close enough so as to be satisfying. And a professor one that makes me laugh–because I teach at a community college, and that one, that one resonates.

I think it’s time for a “What People Think Fiction Writers Do” poster. But since I’m a writer, and not a graphic artist, I am going to put down my thoughts in writing, and not attempt photographic images.

What I’ve started needs some revision, but you get the idea…of What People Think (Fiction) Writers Do:

What my mom thinks I do: never make money and sleep on a park bench at night

What my friends think I do: sleep in, take luxurious lunches, peruse bookstores in the afternoon, and be reliably available for coffee/lunch/dinner/drinks

What society thinks I do: come up with an idea and while impeccably coiffed with a cup of gourmet coffee, write the novel in four hours in aforementioned coiffed state and in my spare time, go to an Occupy protest or fall in love.

What “investors” i.e., editors/agents think I do: never sleep, never shower, hardly eat, never FB, typing away with bleeding fingers

What I think I do: Stare at the wall all day, end up with three words.

What I really do: stare at the wall, fight back tears, write, delete all that i write, write some more, find a sentence i like, celebrate (tweet/FB/watch TV/drink before the self doubt erodes all joy), then write some more, delete all that i write, stare at the wall some more, believe that the wall will give me answers, write some more…and spend a lot of time on twitter/FB and watching TV, and procrastinating…go back and write, delete, write some more. somehow write three words a day until i have a novel in a year/decade

Update: My gracious blog reader, Jelena, decide to share with me her rendition of “What (Fiction) Writers Do.” I love it!

One of those pessimistic days?

Above: “When there is no solution, make one. That’s kind of what entrepreneurs do.”

I’m having one of those pessimistic writing days. I went to sleep last night with a little bit of a cough, and when I woke up, before I could peel my eyes open or try to speak, I knew that I was sick, that something had bloomed and raged in the night.

My throat was sore. That feeling you have when you get a first degree burn on your pinky? Except it’s in your throat? That.

My throat has nothing to do with my writing, I know. And yet it does. It’s from where I speak, and from where I project sound. I know writing doesn’t have literal sound, but it has figurative sound. Writing can whisper and it can scream. And my throat hurts.

It is more difficult than usual to write today.

I was on vacation all last week in New Orleans, where I feasted on all things shellfish, butter and fried and then more often than not drenched in some sort of cream (crawfish cream sauce!) or mayonaise-based (remoulade!) sauce. Oftentimes, these things were stuffed into each other (hello, stuffed flounder: flounder stuffed with crab drenched in crawfish cream sauce).

It was a great trip, one involving lots of walks down unfamiliar streets and architecture involving Creole cottages, shotgun houses, double-gallery homes, and Gothic mansions, the sun filtering through magnolia blossoms and overgrown vines, warming my bones for the first time in months.

I only wrote one day out of the whole week–with Jamey, at a cute little cafe-that-once-upon-a-time-was-a-bank. And what a writing day it was! I wrote and wrote a great number of words, forging a path in novel territory that I’d found difficult in days past.

But I didn’t write the rest of the week. I was either eating, or having unhealthy obsessions about weight gain and walking and walking (more on this, in a later post). In the back of my head, I felt even guiltier about not writing.

I expected to launch straight back into my writing this week.

But no. I’m sick. I’m paying for the blessings of last week. And my body’s sickness is going to my head. I’m feeling pessimistic. A novel is so hard to write. My novel feels impossible to revise and finish. I wish I could quit. I wish to do something that brings me happiness. But then I realize, writing this dark novel of mine makes me happy. Which then makes me wonder what went wrong in my childhood that draws me to this brand of twisted, difficult-to-earn happiness.

So I lay on the couch, competing for prime real estate with my two wiener dogs, sipping meyer lemon + honey + a pinch of cayenne in hot water, waiting for a turnaround.

p.s. in other news..I’ve decided to write those 30 snail mail letters on my 2012 To Do List over the next month or so. I’m going to mail a letter out to friends everyday.

“How’s your novel coming along?”: talking about my novel-in-progress part 1

“How’s your novel coming along?”

When non-writers people ask me this question, no matter how sincere the intention, I hear it spoken in an impatient or mocking tone, ala Stewie from the Family Guy (so painfully hilarious). [1]

Non-Writers People ask me about my novel a lot these days. Of course they do–I quit my tech job last summer, and I’m on sabbatical from my teaching job (yes, I had two jobs for awhile), and my life is to now write/revise my novel everyday. It’s clearly my passion, and they’ve no idea what else I must be doing.

This question is asked of me every time I’m at a cocktail party. As a conversation opener. And about 30 seconds after I’ve crossed the threshold of my former office (and my husband’s current workplace). They ask about my novel, even before they ask how I’m doing.

“Hey Christine! How’s your novel coming along?”

My non-writer friends, when they hear me whine about this, say, “At least people care.” As in, “It’s a normal question.”

Do you really all care? Will 100% of you really buy my book when it’s published? Do you know what an agonizing query this is? One that makes me feel tired and self-doubting and judged and scared and naked? One that then makes me feel guilty, because I do understand you ask out of good intentions, even though it makes me wince?

Do you know that instead of asking me “How’s your novel coming along?” you could say any of the following things:

1. “I can’t wait to BUY and read your novel when it’s done!”
2. “I know your novel will be amazing.”
3. “I think it’s so exciting that you’re taking a leap and writing your novel.”
4. “I support you in your novel writing/revision.”
5. “May I bake you some cookies or raisin walnut bread to eat while you rewrite your novel?”
6. “I hope your novel revision/rewrite is going well! Would you like some chocolate?”
7. “When will you be finished writing the novel?” OHWAIT. Don’t ask that, either. I have no idea. I thought I’d be finished by now. My friend, when pregnant with triplets was understandably HUGE by her fifth month of pregnancy. People would ask when she was due, and when she stated a date four months into the future, their eyebrows would raise and they’d say things like, “Oh wow! You’re HUGE.” And another friend, who is pregnant with twins, gets the same things. Needless to say, they HATE the “due date” question. Same here. I think I’m having novel quintuplets, and I’m about four months pregnant with this novel in “novel-time.” Yah, it’s going to take awhile.

My writer friends know that “How’s your novel coming along?” is an agonizing query. It’s like getting asked how your fetus is doing–an intrusive question at best.

So here’s how my novel is coming along…

It gives me heartburn. Sometimes it kicks me from the inside at an inconvenient moment, or perhaps close to my liver and it gives me pain. Other times, the kicks delight me.

I felt my novel quicken and kick me last year, after I finished the first draft.

Now I feel it swirl and dance.

My novel makes me feel bloated.

My novel makes me nauseous.

My novel makes me crave certain foods.

My novel makes me feel alive. My novel has a heartbeat.

I often fear that this novel won’t make it. That somewhere during the creative process, I’ll lose my grasp on it. That it will just wither and die. And that it will all be my fault. And that you’ll all ask me how it’s going, when in fact, it died inside of me.

I want this novel to be amazing. I am putting all my hopes and dreams into this novel.

I fear this novel won’t be amazing to anyone but me. That I will send it out into the world, and no one will like it.

If no one likes this novel, I will have to put it in my closet, where it will live to the end of its days, visited by no one but me.

I project all my fears onto my novel.

I project all my hope onto my novel.

My novel is getting heavy.

My novel gets bigger every month.

My novel’s features are beginning to sharpen.

My novel looks a little like me, but not really like me, either.

My novel takes everything I have.

That’s how my novel is doing. It’s not done. It will be done. It cannot, at this point, live without me as a host. The only people who get to “see it,” are people who can read a rough draft manuscript, which is the “ultrasound-equivalent” of writing. I love my novel. I hope you will love, it too.

The second question is “What’s your novel about?” And I”ll talk about that in a subsequent post.

[1] Stewie’s monologue on “How’s that novel coming along?” used to be my cellphone ringer.